


Endlösung

by HepG2



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Epic, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, Infinity Gems, M/M, Protective Tony Stark, Slow Burn, The Avengers (2012) Compliant, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-03-17 06:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13653696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HepG2/pseuds/HepG2
Summary: The first heart attack in years is what Tony thinks will finally do him in. He sees his father as darkness claims him, no doubt about that. But when he wakes, they tell him that Howard Stark is truly here, that he's from theotherside, and there are things coming for him. That aside, there's always something else when dealing with dearest Dad. It's not just memories that stunk of fresh pus and reopened wounds, it's secrets after secrets in the last twenty years that Tony starts to wonder if he's ever getting nice things in life, at all?At least he gets Steve Rogers. That's a win.But this... splitting ache in his chest won't stop, and he hopes he'll last long enough to deliver Dad home, because well, he doesn't want to think about the consequence of failing that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, folks! Thank you for clicking in, and I hope you'll enjoy this adventure! It's a fusion between MCU and Marvel-616, specifically, Howard Stark from 616 is making a quick milk run to the MCU-verse. I'm heavily borrowing materials from Secret Origins so you know what's about to happen - eventually. Comments of any kind are welcomed! Enjoy!

It has been nine days since Tony Stark fell from a wormhole above Manhattan skyline and survived, six days since the Avengers were released from observation with a clean bill of health. That would include the Asgardians – plural, though technically not… but they count Loki as one because a Jotun’s physiology isn’t any more different than an Aesir’s, which means them lowly Midguardians have no clue if Thor and Loki were fine or not. As far as Tony’s concerned, medical stuck them both in isolation wards and observed them for three days, and neither died on their watch, so the docs said they were good to go. Tony can certainly roll with that. Point is, _everyone_ is accounted for, and that’s more than he can ever ask for.

 

“Sir,” JARVIS’s cool, mechanical voice intones from a corner. “Captain Rogers is requesting entry into the workshop.”

 

Tony chucks a piece of solder into a red plastic pail, its side somewhat charred. “Captain who?”

 

“Shall I activate Protocol Spank-the-Spangled?”

 

“Activate the what?” Tony peels off the earpiece he has jammed into his right ear and frowns. “Rogers is here?”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“Isn’t he in DC for the next couple of weeks?”

 

“… That was the original schedule. Clearly it has changed.”

 

“Fine.” Tony shoves his half-done circuits into a drawer and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let him in. See what he’s up to.”

 

After the bruhaha of an alien attack on Manhattan – what a story to tell the folks at the Long Island plants next Christmas – life mellowed out and returned to near normal. There are repercussions of course, and Captain America is putting his best non-fight game face on to appease the Congress, national and international security agencies, and militaria representatives from other sovereign countries because apparently, nukes are nothing next to the Avengers, the new mascot of the great U. S. of A. Lose the flag and the uniform, Tony remembers recommending one night before Steve was set for a meeting at Capitol Hill. And Steve says he’s going as Steve Rogers, that if he’s representing anything at all, it is the dream and hopes for peace and liberty for all who coexist on this good Earth. Tony remembers reminding Steve to bring the shield along just in case, and for the life of him, he can’t remember if Steve took it at all.

 

The elevator door opens and heavy army boots make a thumping beeline to the centre of the workshop. “Tony, you need to pack up.”

 

He swivels around in his chair and spreads his arms in a gesture of welcome. “And we need to talk.”

 

“We can talk _as_ you pack. Get going.” Steve still smells of PVC and synthetic air purifier, though the hours spent on the road don’t show on his features. He’s as sprightly and fresh as a super-soldier can be.

 

Tony’s back creaks as he sits straighter in his cushy stool. “What’s the rush?”

 

Steve considers his words, his throat working under the crispy collar of a plain white shirt. He pulls another stool and sits in it, and Tony counts that as a small win. Damn right he’s going nowhere until he’s properly informed what the hoo-hah is about. And they’ve just got back a moment’s peace dammit. Is it too much to ask for one lousy, uneventful week to go without attending press conferences and evading subpoenas?

 

“The World Security Council is looking at making the Avengers an official outfit, and –”

 

“Nope.”

 

“And they’ve passed a motion to Congress considering that we’re citizens –”

 

“ _No,_ we’re not all from around here. Thor isn’t even from this planet. And Romanoff?” Tony chuckles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “She’s well, she’s whatever she thinks she is.”

 

“The formalities we can handle on the side. Think about what this means for the Avengers and our duty, Tony. This grants us authority to operate across borders. No more second guessing the political correctness of our intel based on their origins. This is the turning point in global security that we’ve been waiting for.”

 

“So, you think this will unite mankind overnight, do what two World Wars can’t? Cap, boy, your optimism really knows no bounds.”

 

The lone muscle in Steve’s cheek ticks. “What are you saying? That you’ve found a solution to end conflicts? That the Illuminati exists?”

 

Tony’s eyebrow leaps by a foot and he whistles. “You know about that, huh? The Internet has been good for you.”

 

“I’ve some time.”

 

“See? Peace in our time. That’s good, that’s why this whole who-has-the-bigger-stick doesn’t fly anymore. You want to stop wars? Then you got to stop waging some. Look here, Rogers. _This,_ is what I’ve been doing in my spare time.”

 

Tony doesn’t think it’s the right time to unveil his pet project so soon. He doesn’t even have a prototype ready, and the math is only eighty-six percent done. He’s ninety percent sure that it’s going to work, and he has enough adrenaline pumping in his vein to make up for the lacking ten. He taps his keycode into the panel and a holographic network of lines and numbers fill up the length of the room. They cast an eerie orangish sheen on their faces, and Tony looks up in glee.

 

“What is this?” Steve asks as he reaches out to wave a hand through the visual.

 

“Rogers, meet Ultron.” A yellow orb pulses over Steve’s head. “This is a failsafe to mankind’s ego. What is conflict but a court for people to scream into the vacuum, hmm? For all we know, there’s a kid in Nicaragua who has something clever to say about ending global famine that we won’t know about it because they don’t have the cannons and money and booze to back them up.”

 

The hologram blinks twice before it fades completely. As JARVIS turns the lighting up, Steve finally sees it – Loki’s sceptre balanced on a podium, encased in acrylic box.

 

“What’s that doing here? That should be locked up in an Asgardian vault.”

 

Tony looks away shiftily. “That’s… what made Ultron possible.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You think it’s wise to meddle with alien technology?” Steve’s blood boils something hot when Tony half-rolls his eyes and walks away to the minifridge. He stills Tony by his elbow. “Does Thor know about this?”

 

“Hands _off_ – yes, how else would I get a hold of this sceptre?” Tony throws Steve the dirtiest glare he can muster and resigns to the inevitable plot exposition when Steve’s inquisitiveness doesn’t waver. “The Iron Man suit ran a scan on Loki when we brought him in. Alien physiology aside – I mean, his core temperature would freeze our organs, guess he really is adopted, Thor on the other hand –”

 

“Tony.”

 

“Loki is accompanied by another energy source. It’s localised to his sceptre, and when Thor took it from him, it was still… for a lack of better word, turned on. I went out of a limb and thought _maybe_ this energy source isn’t tied down to Loki, that it’s not under Loki’s direct control. _Maybe_ I can study it, see if I can harvest it to power Ultron.”

 

Steve sits on the stool Tony vacated before. “You’ve been dodging the question about Ultron pretty well. Spill.”

 

“Yeah, I was getting to it. JARVIS?”

 

“Captain Rogers,” coos the ceiling. “Ultron is an artificial intelligence peacekeeping programme created by Mr Stark from the decrypted code derived from the sceptre. The prototype isn’t completed yet, but a test run on Ultron’s surveillance and reporting capacity is scheduled for next week –”

 

“Next _week_?”

 

“Rogers, relax. Ultron is a pre-emptive measure against crimes, and I know what you’re about to say.” Tony holds his hands up placatingly, and Steve simmers down. “This isn’t some Minority Report shit, I promise you.” He ignores the way Steve’s frown deepens. “There are threats _out there_ that are too big for us to handle, Steve. We alone are not enough.”

 

“So you decide to entrust the planet’s safety on an AI?”

 

Tony looks like a thought just dawned on him, and he says, “Yeah.”

 

“An AI that _you_ alone created?”

 

“Well, I’ve got JARVIS my co-pilot –”

 

“When was the last time you had a good night sleep?” The drop in decibel jars Tony more than the loudest scream would have. He flinches at the kindness, and the tension in Steve’s shoulders ebbs away. After all the back and forth, the problem isn’t a possible second extra-terrestrial threat. And the solution isn’t Ultron. “Are you all right?”

 

“Never better.”

 

The edge of Steve’s lips tug, like he doesn’t buy the bullshit but he’s rolling with it anyway. And that is fine, because right now Tony wants nothing more than to stuff Steve into a carpet roll and kick him off the workshop. “I’m here,” Steve says gently, though the expression in his face is anything but. “Until you’ve calmed down and figured things out, shut down Ultron. No argument. The collateral on this misstep – if it is one – isn’t something that can be easily contained.”

 

Tony leans forward against his favourite workbench and braces both corners. “I just need more time on the decryption and coding –”

 

“No, Tony. I’m not doubting your capabilities in bringing Ultron online.” Steve’s wan smile vanishes as he makes for the elevator. “I’m doubting your brand of world peace.”

 

“I said it before, Steve. We alone are not enough.”

 

“And I’m saying this now, that the safest hands are still our own.” JARVIS has already summoned the elevator cabin to this floor. The numbers atop flash three, then two… “You’re still needed at Capitol Hill, by the way. So pack up, I’ll wait for you at the foyer.” The elevator pings and the door slides open. “If I don’t see you in fifteen minutes I’m going to haul you out myself.” Some hideously witty comeback should’ve arrived by now. “Tony?”

 

Tony is sagging against the workbench, already halfway to the ground. His legs are a jelly of mess under his weight, and Steve skids along just in the nick of time to cradle the limp mass in his arms. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Tony’s pupils are vacantly enlarged, and the glassy expression twists into one of agony as he curls into himself. A clammy hand darts out between them to grasp at his chest, right over his arc reactor. That’s enough for Steve. He hooks his arms under Tony back and knees, when a blinding white light tears apart the very fabric of space in the workshop. Between the incoming rays and dizzying hum that gets louder by the second, Steve throws himself over Tony and pins him to the floor. He screams for JARVIS and verbally activates a protocol about Tower-under-attack – but the voice never leaves him. Tony is warm beneath him, and frighteningly motionless. Everything is vibrating, everything is so _noisy_ – garbled chaos – and Steve hugs Tony closer.

 

They won’t have to go it alone.

 

Then, the humming dies. The brightness dies. Colours return to the workshop and Steve sees metallic silver on the floor he’s lying on. He sees the black in Tony’s shirt, and the blue linings that run from his throat to sleeves. The glow of the arc reactor spills between his pallid knuckles, and Steve quickly draws himself up. Tony’s fine – he’s fine because he’s stirring, the agony never quite leaving him but he’s _fine_ –

 

“… Dad?”

 

Tony is _not_ looking at him. His head is tilted right, and he’s hallucinating – talking nonsense –

 

“Oh… fuck me.” His eyes close and his breathing evens out. A crunch of gravel has Steve turning to the entrance so fast his neck almost snaps. He stares and stares, and his gaping mouth ceases to work.

 

“This can’t be right.”

 

In Tony’s deliriousness and confusion, he has been right on both accounts. The lone figure standing amidst the dust and rubble has an M17 – no doubt cocked and loaded – pointed at Steve’s forehead. That’s the _least_ of Steve’s concern, and it damn well be because he is _pretty_ certain that _Howard Stark_ is long deceased.

 

“… Howard?”

 

“I’ll be damned.” The gun clicks once more. “ _Captain Rogers_?”


	3. Chapter 3

The short story is, Steve has the basement workshop locked up and shut down with zero possibility of accessing it unless that person is an angry Tony Stark dealing with an apocalyptic-level planet-wide disaster. On other occasions, traffic has been redirected to the top ten floors of research facilities, and Bruce Banner has been so kind as to share his private working spaces with the research staff.

 

Speaking of which, Bruce is on the first flight home from Singapore. With Iron Man out of commission, the Avengers will need all the firepower they have on standby.

 

The long story however…

 

Steve stretches his arms far above his head as he slides in his plastic seat, his mouth an uncouth, huge O to draw in oxygen. His body is stiff between the armrests, having been stuck in it for the past two hours. Medical assures him that Tony is fine. He’s stable. He’s sleeping, which is comforting, because the size of the bags under his eyes is unsettling. He’s tucked under his blanket, one hand draping his stomach as he snores softly away, oblivious to Steve standing vigil over him.

 

Steve honestly isn’t complaining about the wait. He needs all the time he can get to think things through, make sense of recent events…

 

“Fuck…” A tiny groan escapes from the still form before him, and Steve starts in his seat.

 

“Tony?”

 

“Am I dead?”

 

“You wish.” Steve leans forward to get a better look at his charge. Still looks like death warmed over. “Good to have you back.”

 

“How long was I out?”

 

“Not long. Maybe fifteen minutes? The rest of it was you nappin’.”

 

“Great. I feel like a truck just ran over me.”

 

Tony rolls a pair of bleary eyeballs over Steve, and his toothy grin fades a fraction. “Aren’t you a happy pooch? I’m fine. Give me a pot of coffee or two and I’ll be up in a jiffy.”

 

“Take a break, Tony. Dr Banner is flying in first thing tomorrow.”

 

“Hmm. You got the Hulk to swing by? Unprecedented. You really shouldn’t have done that, by the way. He has his rights to live a life as some reclusive, genius monk. A civilian, like he chose to.” Steve lets the Tony’s emphasis on the last few words to roll over him like dew on wax. He looks away. “You think I’d forget what we talked about? Come on, Cap. Live a little. We don’t have a war at our doorstep. Hell, I think it’s bad luck to keep the Avengers on standby.”

 

“… Like Ultron isn’t one.”

 

Tony laughs, though it’s tinged with weariness. “Touche.” He peels the blanket off his body and sits up. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a pot of coffee to brew.” And he promptly buckles under his own weight, his legs mere useless mush when he sets his feet on the floor.

 

“Now you’re being ridiculous. Lie down.”

 

“Hands _off,_ Steve – what’s with all this skinship –”

 

“Tony –”

 

“I wasn’t kidding about my coffee, all right? I saw my Dad and bright white light and I thought, my God, what a lousy way to go out. So, I’m purging that out of my brain –”

 

“Yeah, about that…” It’s not like he could hide the truth forever. He was hoping Tony would wake much later. He hasn’t a clue on how to break the news, he’s still considering his diction when someone knocked on the bedroom door twice. It’s already ajar, and light streams in from the hallway as it swings wider to admit their visitor.

 

Steve’s heart leaps to his throat.

 

“My God,” Tony whispers, and he stops thrashing about in his bed. Awe quickly replaces petulance. Steve is only waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

“Tony.” Howard’s head tilts awkwardly as he regards them. “It’s…” He trails away, and quickly clears his throat. He tries again. “Feeling better?”

 

Steve expects a number of things to happen amidst the unfortunate reunion. A literal shoe being thrown at Howard’s head is the _mildest_. Tony appears to flicker at the speed he flings an arm out and raises a flattened palm against his father. Steve doesn’t notice when the wristwatch has morphed into an _Iron Man gauntlet,_ charged and lethal. The very air before Steve’s face sizzles.

 

“No, don’t!” He catches Tony by the elbow at the nick of time. The blast of repulsor goes wide and a Dada vase smashes into smithereens. Steve is about to tackle Tony to the ground – Howard, perhaps shocked by the affront, stayed in his spot –

 

“Who are you!” Tony aims another blast at the humanoid figure that has callously assumed his father’s persona. But before he can discharge it, he half-collapses into Steve’s waiting arms, yet this time he doesn’t stay put. He thrashes more violently than he had before, and his eyes were rabid with rage. “Who are you!”

 

“Tony, please –” Steve pleads for sensibility and patience, even if they don’t reach Tony. He tries and tries. “Stop.”

 

“How _dare_ you!”

 

Steve’s grip on Tony’s rage and sanity is slipping. “Get out, Howard.” Tony is weak, but he’s fuelled by a kind of madness that Steve understands isn’t easily quelled. “Go!”

 

Howard leaves without ado, not needing a second telling. His absence sends fatigue slamming into Tony like a tonne of brick that he full-on slumps against Steve’s chest. However much respite his body has gained over the past few hours are wasted, his breathing now ragged and his shirt sticking to his clammy skin. A second heart attack _will_ do him in, and the gimmick earlier isn’t helping.

 

“Why did you let him go?” Tony grits out, too tired to fight against the might of Captain America. “The nerve on that impersonator…”

 

“He’s not an impersonator.”

 

“… Fuck you, Rogers.”

 

“He checks out. It’s Howard.”

 

“He’s dead. Has been for twenty years. You telling me that some zombie just walked into the Tower, past JARVIS – that white light just now. He came out of it. What was that?”

 

Tony seems to weigh more the second time Steve picks him up and carries him to the tussled bed. The gauntlet has collapsed on its own into an unassuming wristwatch, and Steve eyes it warily. “I don’t know. What I do know is… it’s Howard. It’s him.” He lowers Tony gently on the mattress. “You forget we have one of the best interrogators in SHIELD in the Tower.”

 

Tony rebels against his closing eyes, to no avail. “She’s back, huh?”

 

“Nat’s here. We got you. Rest.”


	4. Chapter 4

When Tony wakes again, nothing seems to have changed. His skeleton still weighs like concrete, his head stuffed with cotton. Someone might’ve sewn his eyelids and lips shut. He hears the faint calling of his name in his dead father’s voice and thinks his luck has finally run out. Where’s his two coins to bribe that dude who’ll take him across some otherworldly river?

 

“Easy does it, Tony.”

 

Easier said than done, asshole… is what zipping through the fast lane of his highway of thoughts. It might be the hallucination talking. He’s never had friends – real or imaginary – as a child, so why now. Talk about late bloomers. He cranks open his eyes and sees Howard watching him intently from the bedside. It’s morning now. There’s natural light spilling from the windows. He blinks twice at Howard, makes damn sure he’s corporeal, slowly realises that he’s lying in his own bed, and promptly checks the door.

 

Steve is standing guard, though his back is set firmly against them. A whip of red locks by the door frame tells him Steve’s accompanied, too.

 

“Who are you?” asks Tony, his eyes never left his friends.

 

“I’ll tell you everything I know, but you have to stay calm.” Howard speaks slowly, and each pause is punctuated by the clink of something metallic. Tony readjusts his focus to scrutinise Howard before him, and remains impassive at the heavy locks and chains snaking around Howard’s ankles and wrists. Probably Nat’s doings. It’s Howard’s lucky day that she hasn’t stuck him into a straitjacket.

 

“I was minding my own business, in my office, and something… turned on. I grabbed it, tried to turn it off, and this… portal, just opened and flung me into God knows where. Next thing I know, I’m here. I saw Rogers. I saw you.” The chains around his wrists jingle louder. “This whole thing is as weird to me as it is to you. What year is it, Tony?”

 

He hates the sound of his name coming from this man. “2012.”

 

Howard says nothing. He nods, a semblance of resigned sadness on his youngish face. _This_ Howard isn’t as gray and wrinkled as Tony remembers – then again, it _has_ been twenty years, memories are a fickle thing – but surely he won’t forget the colour of his father’s eyes? This man’s is blue, Dad’s were flaky hazelnut. They rock their moustache and share the callous indifference as they gaze upon their son.

 

Same difference, right?

 

“It’s 1977 where I come from.”

 

Metal morphs under the sheets and a treacherous orb glows from approximately where Tony’s hand lies on the bed. “Try harder.”

 

Howard slumps deeper into his chair. Shadows claim the rough edges of his face. “… When you were five, you had this ridiculous high fever. The doctor couldn’t come in – it was snowing too heavily – so I sponged you down all-night long. In your dreams, you spoke about a circuit you built.” When Tony says nothing, his expression stony as ever, Howard continues slowly. It seems arduous to recall such moments. “After your first week at school, your mother called you. You told her some boys in class were being nasty to you.”

 

The hum of the repulsor subsides. “Oh, really? Is that what happened?” says Tony. “Nat, give us a moment.”

 

All the way up front at the door, Steve looks over his shoulder and catches Tony watching him. A curt nod is all he gives before Natasha, ever the alert sentry in their midst, takes out a recording devise from her pocket and does a flamboyant display of turning it off. She marches off soon after, though Steve remains.

 

The best interrogator for this man’s true identity has reached his verdict, after all.

 

“We’ve just fought alien monsters falling from a wormhole above the city. I just nuked their mothership to kingdom come.” Tony groans tightly as he sits up with slight difficulty. His spine is taut like frozen rubber band, brittle and ready to snap at a moment’s notice. He’s probably biologically older than dearest Dad here. Which is insane. “Let’s say I believe you. _Dad._ Let’s say you got yourself some plutonium and DeLorean and you zapped yourself to the future. Can you zap yourself _back_?”

 

Howard looks like Tony has just grown two heads. “That it? You don’t want to know why I came here? Or how?”

 

“Not the least interested.”

 

Howard’s lips twitch, and Tony’s blood boils. It’s been _years_ since he feels this way, and he doesn’t miss it. This is commonplace, this blatant condescendence that he had to grow up with. “And they told me you’re a genius engineer and a successful businessman. You’re not curious enough, son.”

 

“OK, first off, stop calling me that, it makes my hair stand on ends.” Tony swings his legs over the edge of the bed and unleashes the full destructive power behind the profound if-looks-could-kill. “What I care most about is to _not_ disturb the space-time continuum too much that we all here in 2012 ceases to exist. If what you said is true, then I must be roughly seven in your time zone. It’s too early.”

 

“Too early for what?”

 

“Anyway,” Tony interjects smoothly. “We don’t know much about time travelling even in this so-called distant future. Evidences indicate that time travelling is _impossible._ Think about it. The reality we know of functions on the simple terms of cause and effects. A one-way ticket to expanding entropy.”

 

“My boy’s eyes are blue.”

 

“… Excuse me?”

 

“My Tony, he’s seven this year. His eyes are blue, unlike yours. He takes after his mother. Timid and soft-spoken. But he’s still a child, and you’re… you’re grown up, I thought I’ll never…”

 

“Wow, gee thanks. I don’t have to listen to this.” Tony’s jaws are set. He tests his full weight on his feet and is certain enough that his vision isn’t about to waver. “Thank you for your time, phoney Dad. I hope you like futuristic prison food.”

 

Glad he’s sorted this out. It’s a bit embarrassing to have spent a solid half-an-hour setting this straight. He’d actually _considered_ the possibility of the dead returning, that time travelling is real… his mind is addled is what. What he needs is a more thorough scan of his brain and this fucking ruined heart –

 

“It’s not time travelling, Tony.”

 

Tony is already halfway crossing the span of his bedroom. He halts in his tracks.

 

“I’m from another universe. I’m a bit hazy on the details, but I believe the accurate nomenclature for it is Earth-616.”


	5. Chapter 5

The caveat of time travelling is that like gravity, time only works in one direction. Compared to dimensions of motion, it is possible to for example, stand still by his bedroom door to contemplate the meaning of life more than once in a day. He’s doing it right now. He’ll do it again by night. But he can’t be standing here _and_ in the kitchen making waffles at the same time. Time flows in linear. Maybe there’s a loop, some kind of perverse predestination in which histories repeat themselves. He doubts it. Better trained scientists in this discipline doubt it. And until the day gravity repels and pig flies, Tony’s proud to say that time travelling is best confined to movie reels.

 

But the concept of multiverses?

 

Steve approaches him with a slight frown marring his features. “What’s the plan?”

 

“Is the Hulk box still working?”

 

Steve sighs, and shoves his disagreement elsewhere. “Yes. But it’s occupied.”

 

“Then, move whatever’s in it to keep this guy in.”

 

“We can’t. It’s Loki.”

 

They make a detour to a secluded corner dispensing drinking water. Tony jabs at the tap and holds his paper cup still under the running water. “We have a bunker in the basement, haven’t we? Hold him there.”

 

“Until when?”

 

“Until I fact check his statements and see if universe-hopping is trending this year.” He downs his water in one go and crushes the emptied container in one fist. “I’ll be in my workshop.”

 

Which is still under lockdown. But this is one angry Tony Stark Steve is dealing with, and it can be argued that this is a potential apocalyptic-level, planet-wide threat, so he hurries along in Tony’s wake. “We found something else on Howard when we –”

 

“Don’t call him that.”

 

“… We think we know how he comes here.”

 

“What? Some car battery hooked up to a pillar of LEDs to light up his grand entre?”

 

Stopping before the elevators, Tony stabs at the “down” button and gives the cabin all but three seconds to show up. Clearly it isn’t happening fast enough because he’s suddenly gone from Steve’s side and heading down the fire entrance. Steve follows again. “We ran the item past JARVIS. Nat thought maybe we could chip it a bit and feed it to one of your mass specs. But, the energy signature coming from it suggests… Tony?”

 

They have only descended past three flights of steps. On a good day, Tony is known to have taken the stairs to get to wherever he needs to. He’ll brag about it, or use it as an excuse to skip “sparring time” with the Avengers. Something about having burnt enough calories and moved enough butt muscles for the day.

 

“What’s wrong? Is it… is it the pain? Do you need –”

 

“No,” he pants. “Winded. Give me a minute.”

 

He’s slumped against the wall, the back of his head thudding dully against it. Biting back a stream of I-told-you-so’s, Steve guides Tony to lounge there and then on the landing. They have all the privacy in the world. Nobody uses the stairs from the penthouse unless it’s a fire drill. And it’s unnatural to have silence blaring so loudly in Tony’s company. Steve isn’t a man of many words. It’s just as strange finding himself filling in for Tony, trying to fill the gaps with chatter.

 

“The meeting in DC is adjourned until further notice. Senator Briggs wishes you a speedy recovery.” Tony groans audibly and swipes a palm over his sweaty face.

 

“I suppose there’s an ambulance waiting for me downstairs? Or you’re just being nice to me now because you’re about to cart me off to the hospital in your Harvey?”

 

“Medical came and cleared you. You probably haven’t noticed it but they uh,” and Steve does a vague circular gesture about his chest, which prompts Tony to tug at the collar of shirt and looks down at his own for a quick inspection. “They say it’s feeding data to the hospital direct. So far so good I guess, I mean, I don’t hear any alarms –”

 

“This shit comes with an _alarm_?”

 

“They don’t give me the manual –”

 

“Well it better double as a bulletproof vest, because it _almost_ looks like one.”

 

“SHIELD is holding Loki in the box in the Hellicarrier. Thor is guarding him.” Tony’s throat bobs, though he says nothing. “They’re taking the sceptre back, and the Tesseract. So, if you want to work on them, we don’t have much time.”

 

To Steve’s expectation, that has Tony staring at him in astonishment. “I thought you’re against the idea of me working on alien tech?”

 

“… Chances are, Howard rode on the same alien tech to get here.”

 

And Steve half-expects Tony to summon the Iron Man suit to facilitate him zooming down to the basement floors at breakneck speed. He wisely decides to take the elevator even if it means waiting for fifteen seconds more, and jogs to his lab – all dark and without activities – with Steve hot on his heels. They’d broken protocol once while Tony was still unconscious to deliver Howard’s effects here.

 

A purplish gem sits in an acrylic display case that seems superfluous for something so tiny.

 

“That’s the thingamajig you nicked off him?”

 

“They share the same energy signature, Tony. The sceptre, the Tesseract. The answer is _here._ ”

 

“The answer is here all right.” Tony leans forward to admire how oddly non-reflective the surface of the gemstone is, despite its brilliant glow of purplish hue under the fluorescent lighting. “I just don’t know where to start. I need time… and time is not on our side.” He straightens up and folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t suppose you can ask Thor to loan us the sceptre and the Tesseract until we figure things out.”

 

“No.”

 

“Figures.”

 

Steve wets his bottom lip as he considers his words. “Howard operates this to get here. He knows something we don’t. Work with him –”

 

“ _Work with him_?”

 

“– and get this done!” Steve finishes with gritted teeth. “This isn’t easy on any of us! This can’t be kept a secret for long –”

 

“So, you’ve talked to Fury.”

 

“No! Tony, we can’t hold him in some underground bunker forever. You heard him. So, what if he’s lying about being Howard? He might be telling the truth about having a family back home. And this.” Steve points to the acrylic display case. “This is real. God knows the best person to fix this – to at least _understand_ what we’re dealing with, is you.”

 

Tony draws a deep breath. Life does like to take the mickey out of him sometimes.


	6. Chapter 6

The Avengers Tower is many things. A safe haven for the mighty – bound by honour and duty – and a top-notch research facility on the side. The tenants occupying the lower twenty floors beg to differ. The novelty of sharing floorspace with the Avengers fades after a while, usually by the third time a mini explosion shakes their very foundation that necessitates a complex-wide evacuation. But, Stark Industries built it well. It’s green, it’s strategic – it’s a shame not to be here knee-deep in the heat of things.

 

The Tower is never meant to be a prison.

 

The western wing on the twenty-second floor – accessible only by the Avengers – is soaked in the orangey hue of the setting sun. Tony has with him a doggy bag containing an unpretentious egg mayo sandwich and a bottle of water. In other word, a bag of thoughtfulness he never thought he has.

 

He stops in front of a metal door and presses his palm against a pad where a doorknob usually is. A small click signals him to enter, and the lone occupant in the room looks up from his lap. It must’ve been Natasha’s handiwork. Howard is chained to his chair by his ankles – his arms twisted to his back and fastened to _something_ – and Tony’s lips grow thin with distaste.

 

“I thought you’d forgotten about me. Nobody drops in after Agent Romanoff.”

 

“That’s an improvement,” Tony comments airily. “You know her name.”

 

“Rogers told me.”

 

“So, he came.”

 

“Just to make sure she doesn’t get overly creative. I think.” His blue eyes twinkle in a way that’s so foreign to Tony’s memory. He sits up some more and the chains around his legs jangle. “What do you have there? Smells good.”

 

As if suddenly reminded of his true purpose for visiting, Tony waves his paper bag and approaches Howard in the middle of the room. “A sandwich. Nothing fancy. Figured you haven’t had anything since this morning.”

 

“Since yesterday’s dinner, in fact. Thank you.” Howard’s handcuffs rebel against his motion, and Tony sets the bag on the table between them. “Do you mind?”

 

“Can’t be too careless now, can we?”

 

Still, Tony rolls his eyes when Howard swallows thickly as he eyes the sandwich. Tony isn’t a cruel man, even to his father-wannabe. “Hold still,” he says. It’s all biometrics, anchored in his prints, vocal and facial recognition. Which means hackable, Steve once mused, but iron and padlocks are so yesterday. And if somebody with balls of steel really do manage to – quoting Steve – _hack_ into the Avengers’ security system, then Tony wants to meet them, a contract of employment in tow.

 

Howard makes a whiny sound in the back of his throat, which Tony quickly dismisses as parchedness, because Howard and whining doesn’t belong in the same sentence. “Tony, seriously? I need two hands to eat.”

 

“It’s not steak. You’ll be fine.”

 

Once left to his own device, Howard scarfs down bread like it’s the loveliest thing, though Tony is certain his last meal is something succulent washed down with the finest of wine. He watches on, amused, and uncaps the bottle of water.

 

“Thanks,” Howard says in between mouthful, and swaps his sandwich for a drink. A small portion trickle down his chin as his eyes leer towards Tony who’s leaning casually against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest. With half the bottle gone, Howard sets it down and wipes his mouth with the back of his free hand. “How are you feeling?”

 

Tony doesn’t feel inclined to answer that.

 

“I mean,” Howard coughs awkwardly into his knuckles. “You were out a long time. They said it was a heart attack, but it wasn’t your first time. You’re still _young_ –”

 

“Care to explain where you got the purple jewel from?”

 

It’s obvious that the cogs and gears are spinning in Howard’s head, trying to grasp at some bullshit that he can pass off as fact. Tony grabs the half-eaten sandwich and bottle and pull them away. It earns him a fiendish glare from Howard, and a smirk of childish satisfaction creeps to his lips.

 

“Son, I’m not done with that yet.”

 

“Look, this doesn’t have to be difficult. You’re essentially _trespassing,_ so consider yourself lucky it’s _me_ asking you the hard questions. That redhead nightmare will have you begging for death before dinner time.”

 

“Really?” Howard challenges. “Then, do your worst.”

 

So, Tony does his worst. With one fluid sweep of his arm, he casts Howard’s meal into a waiting thrash can by the side of the table, and leaps off the table. He’s through, he’s done. He’s summoning the experts to deal with this because he has no more fucks to give –

 

“Why are you keeping me here?” shouts Howard from his seat. “I’m unarmed, I’m without weapon! I don’t mean to cause trouble in this universe. There’s some – some miscalculation!” Tony is just one handprint away from respite. “Let me go, Tony.”

 

“… I can’t do that.”

 

“Let me speak to Howard of this universe,” Howard pleads with a tone that suggests finality and desperation. Tony turns around to regard him. “Let me speak with him. He’ll understand.”

 

Tony looks away and huffs. It’s only a matter of time before they arrive at this juncture. Sooner or later, better sooner than later… then, Howard will hopefully crawl back to Earth-616 with his tail between his legs. Go live a life so vanilla, it’s no different from the version in this universe. They just have to get over this speedbump, and it leaves an unsavoury aftertaste in the back of Tony’s tongue.

 

“I’m going to unchain you, and you’re gonna promise me you’ll not try to escape.”

 

“Great!” Howard perks up at once. “Where is he? Is he in this Tower?”

 

“… We’re going out for a drive.”


	7. Chapter 7

Tony leads the way down to the basement carpark just one floor below the workshop. Howard – still trailing behind Tony – has to stop momentarily to check the signage to _make sure_ it’s the carpark. Perfectly understandable, considering the first row of freshly waxed Shelby Cobra, Saleen S7, Tesla Roadster and 1932 Ford Flathead Roadster either mean he’s walked into a discreet automobile showroom, or Stark Industries’ employees are loaded. Even the rubber smells brand new.

 

“Do they fly?” asks Howard as he hurries past them.

 

“No.”

 

“Do cars fly here?”

 

“ _No._ ”

 

A lone car in a far corner beeps, its headlights flashing twice. This one comes in a more subdued paintwork and design, a far cry from the flashier counterparts at the front. But, Tony makes a beeline for it, and so Howard follows.

 

“Get in,” Tony urges, opening the car door on Howard’s behalf. Courtesy be damned. It’s difficult to navigate the door handle when both hands are cuffed and hidden beneath a jacket. The forty minutes’ drive along I-278 is basically a game of trading sideway glances and missing each other, until Tony starts sniffling and Howard fiddles with the air-conditioning.  

 

“Just – _stop._ Don’t touch anything!” The windshield wiper squeaks before them.

 

“Can I drive?”

 

“ _No_!”

 

Because Tony doesn’t like to think himself as much of a dick like his father was, he opens the glove compartment, digs out a couple of power bars and tosses them into Howard’s lap. Food works all the time. The Achilles' heel for even superheroes – the only way to shut the Avengers up for some peace and quiet is to stuff their cakeholes with some.

 

Howard stops munching once Tony takes the second exit out of the highway. He bolts upright, the seatbelt holding him back as he studies the surrounding through the passenger seat’s window.

 

“Flushing Meadows,” Tony supplies helpfully. “You should know this place.”

 

“Looks different… but still familiar.”

 

Their car rolls to a stop before a security booth. Tony winds down his window and lets his fingers tap dance across the steering wheel. He’s decided not to blow his top off when the guard on duty crawls out of his hidey hole to check who’s disturbing his rest.

 

“Mr Stark,” greets the guard, tinged with surprise though his eyes linger uncomfortably on Howard. They linger long enough that Tony waves at him anxiously and speeds away first chance he gets – before the barrier lifts completely – towards the Unisphere.

 

Dusk serves the premise well. Starlight hangs in the night sky, as the Amphitheatre looms in the foreground. It’s subdued, it’s nothing like the explosion of excitement when there are events going on in the Expo. As Stark Industries evolve, so has the purpose and types of exhibitions hosted. Every circuit, every generator powering the buildings is based on the reactor technology, and that means renewable energy. It’s mind-blowingly awesome, which does shit for Tony’s confidence. He finds himself glancing at Howard every other minute.

 

The parking lot that he pulls his car into is almost barren. The handbrake creaks and he unbuckle his seatbelt. “Keep the jacket over your hands.”

 

First stop? The museum.

 

Tony doesn’t care much for this feature. He’d rather set up this space as another lab, but Pepper insists on it, citing the importance of preserving the company’s history and foundation, because an organisation without its roots, that’s forgotten its humble beginning, without _heart,_ is nothing at core. Something dramatic like that. He remembers trying to screw shut a panel into the back of Dum-E when the lecture happened.

 

As far as he’s concerned, he runs the company how _he_ sees fit. Not his father, not his grandfather, because frankly, they run it wrong.

 

“Well?” Tony finally asks when Howard has scanned through the articles and photographs framed and mounted on the walls.

 

“You shut down the weapons manufacturing division four years ago?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Huh.” Howard turns to a trophy encased in glass. “How low did the shares go?”

 

“Dropped by forty.”

 

“I’m surprised the company is still standing.” Tony imagines the trophy transforming into a giant Venus fly trap to eat him whole. Serves him right. “What do you do now?”

 

“Green energy.” Tony walks through an archway. The adjoining chamber hosts a slew of holographic displays of the company’s patented prototypes, including one of the Iron Man suits. Mark VII zips through Howard as he steps into its flight path. “We’re expanding our work on the reactor technology.” Howard runs his hand along the hood of a hybrid car, perhaps wondering if _this_ one can fly. “We’re battling a different war now. Priorities change. Earth’s average surface temperature has risen by 1.1 degree Celsius since the last century. Our oceans are warming up. The Greenland and Antarctic ice sheets are melting.”

 

“… The signs are showing where I’m from.”

 

“You understand why we have to move in this direction?”

 

Howard steps away from the car to admire the bigass portrait of his own face. How is this not the first thing he comes to when he enters the room is anyone’s guess. “Well, this is your company now, Tony. Your call.” His frown deepens when he reads the accompanying plaque.

 

So it begins.

 

“December 16, 1991,” says Tony. Howard turns sharply to him, features somewhat paler. “It was a car accident.”

 

“Maria, is she…”

  
Tony exhales slowly and offers an apologetic wan smile. “I was twenty-one.”

 

There’s no unlearning this truth. Ignorance of one’s fate and destiny – down to the date of one’s death – is perhaps bliss. His fault for traumatising his universe-hopping guest. No one deserves it, not even a sorry excuse of a deadbeat dad.

 

“For what it’s worth, maybe this won’t happen to you. Different universe, different rules…” Tony puts on what must be the most convincing, megawatt grin he can muster. “Different outcomes.” 

 

“This is…” Howard falters. He stumbles away from the portrait. “This is a mistake.”

 

“Look, I’m sorry to have to tell you this. There’s no soft landing for things like this –”

 

“A _miscalculation_ –”

 

“There are differences across our worlds, all right? It doesn’t necessarily have to end up this way –”

 

“If I can’t speak to him _here,_ then I shouldn’t be here!” And Howard advances on Tony, livid and with purpose. Instinctively, Tony calls upon the gauntlet, and his watch morphs into one. Howard ignores the sizzle in the air. “Oh God, I shouldn’t – I can’t be here! Tony, please.” Spittle flies into Tony’s face at this proximity. “ _I can’t be here_! You got to let me go. I need to go!”

 

“Nobody’s going anywhere until you come clean with your mission.”

 

“ _For God’s sake_ –”

 

“Spill. You look like you’re in a rush. So either talk, or we can dance until the cows come home.” His right hand vibrates with energy. Persuasion can come in other means, too.


	8. Chapter 8

Starks aren’t barbarians. Their quarries are intellectual – barring involvement of alcohol – and Tony wants to see what Howard and his poker face can do in light of recent evidences. He pulls out a palm-sized tablet from his pocket and turns it on with a swipe of his thumb. Between them, a holographic projection of the purplish jewel that Natasha and Steve found on Howard’s person shines brightly.

 

“Where did you get this?”

 

“… You best leave alone what you don’t know of.”

 

“Oh, I know a lot of this, all right.” With another swipe of his thumb, a chart of three jagged lines differentiated by colours hangs majestically over the jewel, each passing through hundreds of data points. The lines coincide at several sections, almost overlapping in some ways. “Check out the energy signatures coming from your trinket.”

 

Howard draws in a shaky breath. “The similarities are compelling. You’re telling me you matched the signals from this Gem to… something else. You have more of the Gems in your possession?”

 

The room darkens somewhat as Tony returns the device into his pocket. “That’s a great start. I’m assuming these aren’t Tiffany’s. Anyway,” Tony raises his gauntlet. “I know this doesn’t belong here, much less to you.”

 

“How much do you know about them?” Howard interjects smoothly.

 

“Enough to know that no man should wield them. Whenever they’re used, catastrophe at the galactic level happens. We’re not in a rush for a repeat. The people we know who’d ever used them are our enemies.” The gauntlet whirrs louder a fraction. Howard can’t help glancing at it. “Are you?”

 

“… No.”

 

“Do elaborate.”

 

“I bought it off an auction.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“It was dormant when I found it,” Howard insists. “There was a gala going on at the Expo and this Gem… it started turning on some of the automated weapons prototypes on display. I knew at once there was something… special… about it. I bought it, took it home, tried to take it apart and see what else is going on. And then.” He claps his hands like a pair of cymbals. “I’m here.”

 

“So, it was supposed to be an accident? You had a _gun_ on you when you dropped in.” Tony flexes the phalanges of his gauntlet.

 

“I don’t just turn it on and hope for the best, Tony. I studied it, I theorised what the Gem could do. If it can really take me to a parallel universe, then I sure as well will be packing something when I go on that trip.”

 

Fair enough. Messing with things he shouldn’t be, sounds like something the Howard he knew would do. Parenting for one, has been a dismal attempt. Tony shuts down the gauntlet and wills it to fold back into a watch. “If I return you the Gem, you can use it to go back where you come from?”

 

“In a heartbeat.”

 

Somehow, Tony is willing to call bullshit on that one, too. “Why do you need to speak with yourself of the other universe? What could you possibly learn from him? Our lives don’t intersect. What you do in your world has no consequence on the other.”

 

“I know. But if you have a chance to do this,” Howard’s eyes gleam somewhat haughtily, “wouldn’t you do the same?”

 

“Well, like I said. I’m in no rush to bring upon Armageddon to my planet.”

 

He’s not his father.

 

“So, this is it? You’re going to let me go?”

 

Tony has something else in mind, plus this decision isn’t likely to be wholly his to make. “Yeah. In the meantime, you’re gonna stay on the premise. No funny ideas.”

 

“Sure.”

 

* * *

 

“You want to _wipe his memory_?” Steve asks in forced whispers the soonest he closes the door behind him. The basement workshop is _still_ on lockdown, but desperate circumstances call for desperate measures, so there’s always someone on the lookout for these artefacts, just in case. Steve happens to be on duty now, based on the roster, and just in the nick of time. Tony could really use a drink, but having Captain America to bounce ideas off would do, too. “What for?”

 

“He knows too much about us.”

 

“He’s Howard. Doesn’t that mean a thing?”

  
“No, he’s some guy from another universe. Don’t mistake him for the man you knew, Rogers. And besides,” Tony lowers himself carefully on his favourite swivel chair not too far away from Loki’s sceptre and the Gem. “Who knows what he’ll do after he jumps to the next universe? He could be selling intel to enemies. It’s what _I_ would do.”

 

“Aren’t you –” Steve has cut himself there, scratching his forehead as he reconsiders. When Tony has made up his mind, that’s it. Facts are facts, they’re quantitative, they’re logical – and no amount of heart is going to sway it. Call it a take-home-message after working alongside two generations of them. “Aren’t you prejudiced against him, Tony?”

 

“Say I give him the benefit of the doubt. Say he’s really who he claims he is, and he’s here for scientific curiosity. If someone _out there_ – and _you know_ what’s out there – get news of this? They’ll be doing all they can to extract information. And that’s just the beginning. Just by _being here,_ he’s imprinting his presence in _our_ universe, and we on him.”

 

“And wiping his memory is going to help him how?”

 

“It’s too late to do anything else.” Tony shifts his weight until the chair swivels enough that he’s facing his desk. He grabs a random screwdriver and prods at a coil of wire sitting inside a foam cup. “We can’t keep him here. We certainly can’t kill him. He needs to go home because…” Damn wire won’t unfurl itself. He wants the thin copper one right there. “Because his kid needs him.”

 

Because he’s lost everything once.

 

Once really was enough.


	9. Chapter 9

An annoying stream of _beep, beep, beep_ erupts from somewhere inside his shirt, and Tony pops the first three buttons from his collar with more force than necessary. About damn time the thing comes off. It’s heavy, it sticks horribly to his skin like a wet diaper. The top of what looks like a flak jacket peeks into view, and Steve scoots closer in his stool.

 

“Is that it? They’ll clear you if the results come back OK?”

 

“Well, they’ll probably want me back for observation.” Tony yanks at the Velcro securing the stupid vest at his back. It falls off from his chest unceremoniously, and the brilliance of the arc reactor spills forth. “But, you don’t always get what you want. So.” He chucks the entire piece of nylon mesh and cotton padding and electronics on the workbench, not caring in the least at how tendrils of wire flail everyway. “It’s done. See this cool monitor here? It says OK.”

 

“It doesn’t say OK –”

 

“It does to me. Look –” And Tony grabs at the vest before Steve can reach for it. “We are dealing with a pressing issue at hand. That takes precedence.”

 

“Where’s Howard?”

 

“Back in his room. It wasn’t the most uplifting trip to the Expo, I admit. Give him some time to uh, digest the information.” A moot point, honestly, since they intend to wipe every waking memory Howard has of this universe. And with them, a trove of answers Tony is itching to get his grubby paws on. The Gem that’s currently idling on a block of leftover acrylic, that’s able to tear apart the fabric of time and space to transport a human being _here_? What he wouldn’t give to crack it open, understand even an inkling of its physics and mechanics. All the things he could with the knowledge – space exploration, time travelling – an endless possibility to exploit. A shame, really, to have to return the Gem to whence it comes from. But, it takes time to figure out how to wipe clean a brain – a clean slate – so until _then_ …

 

“We discussed about it, and I assure you, it wasn’t an easy decision to make.”

 

Tony’s eyes flicker upward. “What?”

 

“… I said, you’re benched from Avengers duties.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

The little wheels under Tony’s stool creak loudly as he scoots forward towards Steve. “You can’t do that!”

 

“We all agreed –”

 

“Which experts made that allegedly informed decision?”

 

Steve visibly deflates. “Your _friends_. We watched you fall from the wormhole and you didn’t think that would affect you? It did us! Some rest will do us _all_ some good. Use the extra time to deal with this pressing issue at hand. It’s a win-win for you, right?”

 

“I’m great at multitasking, by the way.”

  
The case is already lost. Steve knows it, too. There’s dignity in his silence. So, Tony folds. He’s got to handle an intergalactic mess of a headache. One that’s been confined to his bedroom since they got back, supplied with warm food and kept _very_ preoccupied with the Internet. A rather helpful invention, a wise man once told Tony.

 

“Anyway, maybe I should go check on him. Leaving him to his own devise is a dangerous thing.”

 

Steve chuckles and gets to his feet. “That trait _does_ run in the blood.”

 

“Maybe he’s solved the Navier Stokes equation. I shall _not_ be holding my breath.”

 

Before they can take one step away from the workbench, the discarded vest beeps again, and Tony frowns at it. Now, the monitor clipped to it is blinking, saying nothing but the word “Neg”.

 

“That can’t be right,” says Tony. But that’s all the vest is telling them. Clearly it means something. Tony’s expression darkens as he contemplates the significance of the message. “It’s not palladium poisoning either. My new ticker doesn’t require it, and all traces of heavy metal is gone from my circulation. I _triple_ checked it.”

 

“What does it mean?” This time, Tony doesn’t prevent Steve from taking the vest for his own. He stares at the still adamantly blinking monitor.

 

“It means I’m negative for a heart attack.”

 

“It’s got to be something.” Steve lays the vest on the workbench again. “You dropped. You were unconscious and non-responsive. Go to the hospital, Tony.” That sharp incline in the intonation right there? Someone’s about to blow his top off. Tony would rather _not_ to have to deal with that. “You fell from space, for God’s sake.”

 

“So I will. _After_ we send Dad home.”


	10. Chapter 10

For the second time in the last six hours, Tony’s back in the western wing of the twenty-second floor. The housekeepers have hauled in a cot – they told him because clearly, he forgot that intergalactic space travellers need to sleep, too – and Tony hesitates before the plain metallic door. Maybe Howard’s asleep. Maybe Howard’s busy perusing the computer, learning as much as he can about this universe.

 

Maybe’s he’s watching porn. Tony didn’t block that access.

 

He knocks twice on the door and a fraction of second later, a gruff “come in” echoes from within.

 

“Hey,” greets Tony. The recessed lighting becomes brighter, motion sensors picking up his presence. It’s energy saving, it’s green. It eases his carbon footprint and conscience. “Still up? It’s late.”

 

“This Internet thing is fascinating.” Howard’s fingers are still tapdancing across the keyboard, his tired eyes glued to the screen. Arguably, it could still be some busty ladies banging each other on the screen – Tony won’t know since the laptop is set against him. He won’t put it past Howard at having the screen halved, one for pleasure and one for the mundane.

“So, when are you giving me back the Gem?” He prods his last few keys with a flourish, his eyes gleaming before the finely pixelated screen. He looks up. “I need it – Jesus Christ. What is that?”

 

“What’s what?”

 

“Your chest.” Howard gets to his feet slowly. “There’s… a _light_ in your chest.”

 

“Oh, this? Don’t mind it. Chicks dig it, by the way.”

 

“I read about you, about _it._ ” Howard closes the gap between them in a few long strides. There’s something enchanting about the arc reactor that calls to him, it seems, and for every second his attention lingers on it, Tony contemplates taking a step _back._ “The accident in Afghanistan. What happened after that –”

 

“OK, firstly, whoa. You read about _me_?”

 

“I thought it was a hoax. Some PR bullshit they spin to get the stock up. I mean, the CEO kidnapped by the country’s enemies isn’t exactly great to open the NYSE with.”

 

A vein almost pops in Tony’s temple. He steps aside and returns as much distance as he can between them. At the very least, more than the reach of his fist. “Oh yes. Faking my kidnapping is such a joy. You should try it when you get back.”

 

“What do you want to hear from me, huh? That I’m sorry it happened?” See, Daddy may have been dead for twenty years but this whole exchange feels like yesterday. Last time, it was usually between Howard and Maria, because he was a still a snotty punk who didn’t talk adult. Now that he’s gained the extra few inches in height and some mileage in his soul, he’s fair game? “It’s risks that people like us, people in _positions of power_ signed up for. It’s worth putting everything at stake so we can do what’s right.”

 

“Do what’s right?” Tony snaps. “ _Your_ weapons fuel wars on either side of the borders of countries we never set foot on. _Your_ weapons allow oppressive regimes to continue, on the sole basis of them having pockets deeper than yours. Your _ego_!” He grabs the hem of his T-shirt and lifts it. All the scar, the marks, the reactor itself – all in their full glory for Howard to see. “Afghan terrorists took me because they wanted weapons made. Oh, don’t look so disgusted. I took evening walks in their armoury. There were stockpiles of _our stuff._ They needed more, so they asked me to build them the missiles. I said no. They stuck my head in water until they were damn sure I’d choose my own death over thousands’ others. So, they pointed a gun at this other guy. I said _yes._ ”

 

“Tony –”

 

“Unfortunately for them, I was already dying. Had a bunch of shrapnel buried close to the pericardium. It was an _accident,_ as you so eloquently put. That chap I saved? He implanted some electromagnet in my chest to keep the bits from dicing up my heart so I could work on those missiles I promised to build. Long story short, I kicked their asses, got home, swapped that EM for this arc reactor and became Iron Man.” He shoves his shirt down. “Oh, by the way, that man didn’t make it out alive. Shame. Such a stand-up guy.”

 

“That’s why you shut down the weapons manufacturing division?”

 

Tony’s mouth opens, his throat working, torn between strangling Howard for getting him so worked up over nothing, and confiscating the laptop because he’s not quite above that. “My company, my call.”

 

He smooths out the creases in his shirt and marches to the door. He shouldn’t have come here. He could’ve sent Natasha or Steve. Howard would’ve preferred that. “If you need anything, just press that button.” He waves at some corner vaguely. He’s like sixty percent sure there’s a call function in that button, _if_ there’s a button there at all. “Someone will come.”

 

“Where’s Arno?”

 

Tony stops in his track. “Huh?”

 

“Arno,” Howard pronounces the syllable slowly, more clearly. “Do you know – uh, heard of him?”

 

“… No. Never heard of that name.”

 

Tony takes his exit soon after. He skips the elevator and heads for the stairwell instead, intending to burn his pent-up whatever for having to share the same breathing space with Howard for fifteen excruciating minutes. If the climb up seven floors isn’t enough, at least he’ll find himself on the same floor as the Avengers training room. There better be some sandbags left – he will so murder Steve Rogers if he bust through all of them _without_ ordering replacements.

 

“JARVIS, what has he been searching on the Internet?”

 

“Who do you mean, Sir?”

 

“Oh, I’m mighty curious about Robert Downey Internet search history. You know who I meant!”

 

“… Nothing incriminating, Sir, if that’s what you mean.”

 

“Search his keywords. Gem, Arno.”

 

“Negative, Sir.”

 

Knowing one’s enemy and knowing oneself, one shan’t be imperilled in a hundred battles. Ignorance of one’s enemy with knowledge of oneself, expect equal number of wins and losses. Ignorance of both enemies and oneself, and losses are guaranteed.

 

“What are you up to, Dad?”


	11. Chapter 11

“I did not expect to find you here.”

 

The low thud of Steve’s knuckles against the reinforced sandbag echoes in the gym. One, two, one, two – solid punches that would’ve knocked the bag right off the ceiling and through the wall if not for Tony’s savvy tinkering. Steve loses his rhythm, trading glances with Tony who’s found himself a comfortable spot to nestle in between heaps of busted sandbags. It isn’t for a lack of trying that neither outlasted a five-minute round with Steve Rogers. _It’s economic_. Why waste all the resources on a sandbag fortified with rarer-than-rare vibranium, if he could order one hundred of not-bad bags for a fraction of the cost?

 

“It’s late, Tony. It’s almost one.”

 

“So, I missed my curfew. Are you gonna ground me?”

 

“At this hour, you’re usually either working in your workshop, or –” Steve stills the pendulum of a bag, grabbing it firmly by its side until the chains stop rattling. “Asleep. You’re here. What’s troubling you?”

 

“… Too much coffee.”

 

As if Steve’s going to buy whatever he says. And it looks like a case of the pot calling the kettle black here. There’s twice the number of busted sandbag, strewn around dejectedly for as far as the eyes can see. “Something troubling _you,_ Captain?”

 

Steve pulls a bottle of water from his sports bag. “Nothing.”

 

Two can play the game.

 

“Are you all right?” Steve asks, his bottle already half emptied. He stares at Tony in earnest. Would’ve burned a hole right through the skull.

 

“No. Not really.” Tony stretches both legs before him, and prods at the frayed end of one of the bags with his toe. “I don’t want to talk about it either. Unless, you know how to –” He holds up his index finger. “Brainwash someone. And.” He holds up his middle finger. “Give me a guarantee that the Gem _will_ deliver him home.”

 

“Right. I thought between dinner and now you would’ve solved them, easy.”

 

“Eat sand, Rogers.”

 

 

His eyes follow Steve wherever he goes. He watches the muscles bulge as Steve unhooks the bag from the pulley and heaves it over his shoulder. The novelty of such display of physical prowess has long faded – Steve puts a dent in BMWs and concrete with his bare fists all the time. The underlying grace and tenderness never does. “By the way. Have you heard of the name Arno?”

 

Steve spares him a curious glance. “No. Who’s this person?”

 

“Beats me. Something fake-Dad asked.”

 

“We’re still at _fake-Dad_ , huh?”

 

“As far as I’m concerned, I only knew that man for roughly twenty-four hours. Clearly, he and Dad aren’t the same person. Take this Arno guy, for example. Fake-Dad asked me if I knew him. Which means, I’m _supposed_ to. But, I don’t. Two roads diverged in the woods.” He stifles a yawn. “One with Arno, one without.”

 

“You’re done, Tony. Go to bed.”

 

“Nuh-uh. Not yet.”

 

“What _are_ you up to?”

 

“… Nothing serious. Stop frowning. You’ll age twice as fast.” Then, a brilliant idea strikes him hard enough he leaps to his feet, much to Steve’s astonishment. As far as the good Captain is concerned, even a Chitauri attack isn’t motivation enough for Tony Stark to move _that_ fast. Something’s up.

 

“Let’s spar,” says Tony simply.

 

Something is _definitely_ up.

 

“You hate sparring.”

 

“Hate is a strong word. I don’t _like_ sparring with you guys because one, I don’t wanna kill you, and two, if I’m out of the suit, you guys form a pack to whoop my butt for kicks and giggles.”

 

“No,” Steve emphasises. “This isn’t a game. We’re only as strong as the weakest Avenger –”

 

“Oh, there we go. Honesty is the best policy, they say.”

 

“There’s always room for improvement.”

 

Tony waves his hand with impatience. “Sure. So, are we sparring or yapping?”

 

There’s no need to rearrange the tatami mats or the carcases of punctured sandbags. There’s more than one reason for the need to _hit something_. They dance around the mess, testing waters. Steve mostly on defence, and Tony making a constant fool of himself. Close quarter combat without JARVIS’ input isn’t Tony’s strongest suit. Steve parries a poorly timed punch and steps away with ease, managing to sneak an open-palmed pat along Tony’s flank. He’s not aiming to hurt, or maim – mostly to annoy, and it’s working – and tonight reaffirms Steve’s thoughts about Tony’s training. Best case scenario, Tony’s only fighting to buy time for his suit to come to him. Without Iron Man, he’s as good as dead.

 

Steve’s heart skips a beat at the thought.

 

“Daydreamin’, Rogers?”

 

Tony ducks and kicks out. That dirty trick would’ve worked, but Steve’s quicker. He jumps, and before he can stop himself, he aims a kick at an open spot between Tony’s neck and shoulder –

 

“Steve –”

 

Tony hits the mat the next instance, his form crumpling upon impact before he could say another word.

 

“Oh God –”

 

It couldn’t have hurt too bad! He’s been pulling his punches – but this is all muscle memory. Moves, ingrained into his every fibre. There’s no leeway for hesitation – a fraction of that is death in battle. Tony doesn’t stir, and Steve drops to his knees, aghast at what he’s done.

 

“Tony?”

 

He would’ve signalled for a code red evac for SHIELD medical if not for the shallow gasp of breath, and a shudder of Tony’s shoulders, which quickly graduate into a full-blown guffaw of shameless, amused chortle.

 

Steve sits back on his heels, feeling the weight of guilt evaporating. The temptation to wrap his fingers around the flimsy neck is getting harder and harder to ignore. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

 

Tony rolls over to his back, not the least abashed at what _he’s_ done. “Aww, Cap. You should look at your face.”

 

And from somewhere in between them, something else buzzes incessantly. The mirth on Tony’s face’s gone, and he retrieves his cell phone from his back pocket. The sleek piece of plastic would’ve been smashed to smithereens if it were any other make but Starkware. There’s something playing on the screen, something that doesn’t quite make sense to Steve, but it’s plain as day to Tony, and it’s unsettling him.

 

Steve’s only waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

Tony looks up from the device, his features grim. “Howard’s on the move.”


	12. Chapter 12

They pile into the most discreet automobile Tony has in his collection – the same black one he took Howard out for a ride – and accelerate down I-278. Down the same lane, across the same pothole after the second exit, only with twice the anxiety. Tony has taken to strapping his phone onto his dash where a single red dot blips rhythmically on his screen, and glancing at it every other minute. Going by the speed at which it’s travelling and the annoyance displayed on Tony’s face whenever he looks at it, Steve believes it represents Howard, and he’s in a land vehicle himself.

 

A cab, very likely.

 

“How did he get out of the room? I thought you had it secured?” asks Steve, both his hands clasped neatly in his lap.

 

“It was.”

 

“ _Was_?”

 

“That door requires my biometrics to lock and unlock. It’s a seminar room where I hold meetings for certain key projects, discussions on prototypes pre-launch. You know.” Tony clears his throat. “Top secret stuff. This time, I introduced a kink in the security. Made it a bit more _accessible_. Biometrics aside, few of my staff – like Pepper, trustworthy people – have access codes. I’d bet my Swiss account that he fiddled with the keypads after I left the room. I just…” Tony turns his wheel, exiting the highway. “I didn’t think he remembers.”

 

“Remember what?”

 

“My birthday.” The road looks clear from here on out. It doesn’t lead to many places, though Tony has his suspicions. “I set the access code as my birthday.”

 

Steve remains contemplative for the rest of the journey, and Tony would’ve stowed his phone into his pocket because fifteen minutes later, it’s pretty clear where they’re headed to. He’s half-hoping Howard would veer off the road, show them someplace unknown to either of them, and before long, the main complex of the Maria Stark Foundation looms in the horizon. It’s near dawn now. The sun is peeking from behind the eastern block. That’s a whole night gone without a shut eye, but who needs them when he’s slept his worth after the freak heart attack incident?

 

 _Howard_ does. Something’s forcing him to forge on. And Tony’s as desperate to find out what.

 

He pulls his car into an empty spot adjacent to Entrance B. Howard is already in the building – the phone says so.

 

“How are you tracking him? A bug on his shirt?”

 

Tony locks his car and hurries through the door. “I slipped him a mickey. Totally biodegradable,” he adds quickly. “Will be out of his system in twenty-four hours. If it doesn’t, a good dose of laxatives would do wonders.” Think the egg mayo sandwich comes with no strings attached?

 

He pushes the door to the fire exits with his shoulder and continues his descent by the stairs with Steve hot on his heels. “The basement is closed off to the public.”

 

The basement has _nothing._ It’s free space for spare furniture and homeless spiders. Tony can’t remember the last time he set foot there. He knows vaguely that the Foundation goes below ground level.

 

He reels to a halt before the next door. A giant signage stating “B1” hangs above it. He makes sure his phone has been silenced, and that Howard is indeed on this floor. It feels tight – inside – holding his breath, like Pandora holding hers before she unleashes the Box. The door is sturdy. Treacherous.

 

And locked.

 

Tony tries it again. It won’t give. The handle doesn’t even jiggle. He trades sideway glances with Steve, who seems to be entertaining a rather violent option, shoulders already squared, fist clenched.

 

“No,” says Tony simply, and that’s that.

 

On his phone, Howard has already moved beyond the second or third chamber. The floorplan seems unclear. There are no more than three chambers beyond this door. With floor area this spacious, it could’ve fitted triple the number of rooms, easy.

 

“Can’t your bug record his voice or capture images from his eyes?” asks Steve exasperatedly, as Tony slumps against the wall.

 

“I’m a scientist, Rogers, not a magician. It’s a tracking device. It tracks people.”

 

“… There’s a keypad to your right.”

 

That jolts Tony off the wall and he stares at the pristine corner, noticing for the first time the discreetly installed keypad beside the door. A smooth pad no bigger than the size of one’s thumb is all it is, and Tony tries it. If this were built to match somebody’s biometrics – perhaps the original founder of the complex – he can’t imagine why it would be set to his.

 

Yet, something clicks. Steve rests a tentative, long finger on the handle. One brow raised, he presses it down, and _it gives._

 

 _That’s_ magic.

 

They pad down the hallway in absolute silence. Tony won’t even drag his feet. They keep tightly to the walls, eyes and ears peeled. There’s nothing for the living here. Soundless, _airless._ Someone must’ve come down to do some sprucing up once in a while, and that’s about it. There’s no activities, no _light,_ only what seeps through Tony’s shirt from his arc reactor, and the dim recessed lighting every few yards in the ceiling.

 

A door to their left is ajar. Voices can be heard from within.

 

Tony puts a finger to his lips. Steve is so close he could feel his heat.

 

The voice grows louder, and impatient. “… A hospice, dammit. The Maria Stark Foundation hospice. What do you mean you don’t have a hospice?”

 

No, they don’t. Tony frowns and presses himself deeper into the walls. He inches closer to the door. He needs to _know._

 

“Fine. The hospice may _not_ be in the basement. Maybe elsewhere? Do you have an address? What do you mean the Foundation doesn’t have hospices _anywhere_?”

 

A loon looking for an answer that doesn’t exist, then. Perhaps universes do differ from one another. Significantly so.

 

“Fine. Any records of a patient – or employee, charges – by the name of Arno _Stark_?”

 

Tony’s heart does a backflip, and he ignores how still Steve has suddenly become.


	13. Chapter 13

The fact that he’s able to gather this much information in the span of three glorious minutes means Murphy’s about to rear his ugly head in three, two –

 

Tony almost jumps an inch into the air when his phone and _Steve’s_ blare like toddlers robbed off their candies. Howard sprinting out of the door is completely understandable – and expected – so Steve helpfully reaches a long arm out and wrestles him to the wall, as Tony, plenty annoyed by now, answers his phone.

 

When someone calls them on the Avengers’ private line, everybody and their dogs in the room will know. That specific function cannot be turned off, or silenced for obvious reasons, and sometimes, he questions his own genius. Hung by his own petard, Steve will say, and he is _not_ impressed.

 

“This better be good, because I’m about to _evict_ the idiot who makes this call.” 

 

“Where are you, Tony?” Natasha speaks. She sounds like she’s about to put a hole in the nearest pillar she could find. “We can’t get into your lab without your handprint.”

 

“And why, Agent Romanoff, do you want to break into my lab, and informing me of your inability to do so?”

 

There’s a beat of unease at the other line, before she replies, “We’re sending off Thor and Loki to Asgard in two hours. Or did you forget to put that down in your calendar? The sceptre needs to go, too.” It’s a good thing that she’s been placed on loudspeaker, so Steve can put on an appropriate look of equal parts abashed and appalled. Really, sending off space Vikings to their home planet, one of which had almost brought upon Armageddon to Earth – what could possibly be more important than smacking Loki in the back of his head and wish him good riddance?

 

A small cry erupts from the crook of Steve’s arm. “Let me go!”

 

Whisking Howard away without a word, up the stairs and through the foyer and into the car, Steve shoves him – politely – in the back seat, straps him in and takes the wheel. Tony sidles beside him, clearly displeased with the seating arrangement. Tough. By now, the sun’s properly risen. It’s when normal people have breakfast and superheroes escort intergalactic terrorist to intergalactic portals. They could use a bit more speed, but Steve’s being Steve, so he keeps to the limit. What joy, more facetime for his passengers. They might hug a little, shed a small tear perhaps by the end of the journey.

 

“Don’t be so smug, boy. I know it was a trap.”

 

“Who _cares_ what you think if it were a trap or not? You’re lucky we’re having a Code Red right now, or –”

 

“Or what? You’re gonna dunk me in ice water and force answers with a drill pointed to my head?”

 

“Son of a bi–” Tony’s seatbelt tautens as he tries to twist around. Steve instinctively frees up a hand, a departure from his old school rule of handling the wheels – ten and two o’clock, always – and it settles to clench on the brake, inches away from Tony’s wrist.

 

“I knew you rigged the door so I could escape, and you could follow me. I took the chance.”

 

“So, this Arno guy is family?” Tony asks smoothly.

 

“It doesn’t matter, does it, if he doesn’t exist here.”

 

“Sure it does. You hop universe for this guy. I got curious.”

 

“He’s _nothing_ to you.”

 

“He’s something to you.”

 

Instead of heading down the ramp into the parking lot or the driveway connected to the Tower’s annex, Steve dawdles in the back where delivery trucks usually go. He’s where he should be. Clint Barton, still decked in SHIELD gears has just given him a thumb-up in a blink-and-miss. He’s perched on the rooftop, one boot-clad foot sticking out of the parapet. His keen eyes are an asset to this operation. Their payloads are standing on the tarmac, a space precleared of vehicles.

 

If time were on their side, Steve would have preferred to drop Howard off at the Tower. Bringing another variable into this mess is troublesome enough –

 

“Loki!” Thor growls, pulling at his brother’s handcuffs with some effort. Loki’s struggles become persistent, and intensifies as he sets his eyes on _Howard_ , who’s been forced to get out of the car by a rather disgruntled Tony.

 

“Tony,” Steve says slowly. “Stay back. Howard! Get back here!”

 

The Avengers close rank. Clint, still out of sight made his presence known via a steady red dot trained on the centre of Loki’s forehead. They’ve taken all necessary precautions, leaving nothing to chance. One misstep on Loki’s part – adopted Aesir or not – he’s stardust.

 

“Brother, hold _still_!” Thor booms, yet it does nothing to appease Loki. He’s restless. Maddened, even.

 

Natasha’s sidearm is aimed squarely at Loki’s heart. She does not waver as she orders, “Take his mouthguard off.” Thor hears her, but does not make to undo the catch. So, Loki struggles, and Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “Take it off, Thor. Let him speak.”

 

Throughout all the fits and thrashes, Loki has not once torn his gaze from Howard. He’s rightfully taken aback by the unwanted attention, shrinking against the side of the car and instinctively slinking closer to Steve. The chains binding Loki are nigh indestructible – so Thor says – made of uru metal and fused with Aesir magic. Stuff that incites Tony’s interests no doubt, but between cuffs and Stones, there’s no contest.

 

The catch behind Loki’s dark hair gives, and the metal falls from his mouth. He flexes his jaws, gets the tendon working again after being kept stretched for so long… and the _hunger_ in his eyes never fades.

 

He finally says, “You.” His voice is chilling. “You’re not from around here.” The amount of confidence in those few words is chillier. “I can _smell_ it on you. Where is it?”

 

Feeling somewhat bolder – or foolish – Howard takes a small step forward. “Where is what?”

 

“Enough with the jest, mortal! The Space Stone – it brought you here! Brother!” He snaps his neck towards Thor. “Listen to me. We have to get that Stone _off_ this planet. More than one in proximity is dangerous enough, but one of which is _not_ from this universe? I do not wish to see the end of days – not this way.”


	14. Chapter 14

“Stop this nonsense at once, Loki!” Thor jerks at the chains connected to Loki’s wrists, and he stumbles backward. “These games will not delay judgement –”

 

“I have studied the universe, its lore and its secrets! This isn’t a _game,_ Thor! The Tesseract brought him here!”

 

“The Tesseract _is here!_ ” Thor jangles the glowing cube in his free hand, his own patience running dangerously thin, as with Loki’s. The Tesseract is _their_ ticket home. “Honestly, one more word from your poisonous tongue, and I will –”

 

“Please, Thor,” pleads Loki. “Please, you’re making a mistake! He’s not from here. His Tesseract – his Stone – is not _from here._ This should never have happened – I never knew it _could_! Two of the same existing at the same time and space, imagine that!” His dark eyes glower in excitement, and he cast an accusing glare at the rest of the Avengers. “These mortals do not understand the gravity of the situation at hand. We must take these Stones to Father. He’ll know what to do. This is beyond them.” He looks back at Thor. “Beyond us.”

 

All the way back here, by the idling car, Steve watches the Aesirs going back and forth about the fate of these touted magical Stones. As displeased as it is to acknowledge Loki’s accusation, he _is_ as ignorant about the artefacts, and there’s likely nothing that can be done to rectify it. His colleagues could possibly science the crap out of them, try to figure things out, and the soonest the thought crosses his mind, he glances askance at Tony.

 

“… Tony?”

 

Tony is leaning heavily against the side of the car, face pale and forehead knitted. He’s gasping in the cool morning breeze.

 

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks again, and Howard too, turns around to regard him.

 

Tony grits his teeth. “Something’s not right.”

 

Too soon. He falls, his features twisting in pain as a dull hum fills the parking lot, so strongly it could have ripped eardrums. Howard launches himself from the other side of the car and kneels before Tony, effectively pulling the unresisting form into his lap. Steve regrets not bringing his shield along. But it doesn’t define his courage, nor does it undermine his duty and responsibility over his team. He stands steadfastly between the Starks and the growing turbulence before him.

 

Like fabric torn apart, the fissure suspended mid-air has nothing, and everything. Whatever’s on the other side of the portal flickers with the accompanying trembling hum. Steve sees concrete floor and walls. An empty bunker is his best guess. Something of Earth origin. The fissure widens even more, and two man-size figures step out of it. With them, tension intensifies among the Avengers. Their guns are still trained on them, security off. Friendly or threat? Shoot first, and ask questions later?

 

“Hold your fire!” Steve screams above the chaos, and checks on Tony with what few seconds he dares to spare. Iron Man is down, that much is certain. Tony is fading. His fist is closed tightly over his arc reactor, while Howard cradles him on the tarmac. That’s one heavy hitter out of the game. Steve doesn’t like their odds.

 

“Call it, Steve!” Natasha yells, her finger poised on the trigger. “Can’t be doing this forever!”

 

They’re fast. One of them reaches behind their waist and pulls out a _sidearm,_ and the Avengers break rank. A bullet grazes Natasha’s cheek, and that’s all Steve needs before he charges into the fray. Clint has since fired twice and missed. They’re fast, _and strong_. Steve engages the one closest to him in a mad flurry of close quarter combat. Each blow rings true, and would’ve shattered his bones if not for his serum-enhanced durability.

 

“Nat, don’t engage!” Steve warns between punches.

 

“Can’t do! They’re coming for Howard. I’m on it.”

 

“Nat!”

 

A hot second of distraction is all it takes for his assailant to slam a foot into his stomach, hard enough to send him reeling into a parked truck. It dents upon impact, and on pure instinct alone, Steve rolls to his side, narrowly evading another kick that would’ve otherwise smashed his skull.

 

A heavy set of knuckles is coming his way – fast – and this one, he can’t run away from. He’s cornered, so he lifts his arms in front of his face –

 

Nothing hits.

 

Like magic.

 

Slowly, Steve lowers his defence, and peers from above his elbow. Details that he’s missed in the uproar become discernible. A red five-point star on the left bicep, stringy hair, a metal mask that covers the bottom half of their face, and eyes that extend endlessly into the vacuum. The figure is cloaked in a greenish light, unmoving despite Steve’s open stance, ripe for the taking.

 

“Who are you?” Steve whispers.

 

He hears a sickening snap, and those empty eyes roll skyward. The light hugging his form ebbs away, and the body drops before Steve.

 

His suspicion is proven right when he tracks _Loki_ striking a fighting pose, already freed from his bounds and gags. His long fingers are emanating the same greenish light. They lock eyes across the distance, and there’s not a shred of regret in the cold-blooded murder. It’s kill or be killed, it’s necessary.

 

There’s no glee in Loki’s visage after the deed, either.

 

It doesn’t comfort Steve’s heart.

 

“Thor! Get him!”

 

Their enemy has one target in mind, and the last one standing is making one mad dash towards it. His Hail Mary. He readies a fist – a _metal_ fist, the sheen catches the glow of the morning sun.

 

Mjolnir slams into the small of his neck in a spine-breaking force. It crumples to the floor unceremoniously, and splutters before Howard, who’s all but curled into the recesses of the back wheels, both arms wrapped fastidiously around an unconscious Tony.

 

Howard might’ve been _this_ close to getting a heart attack himself.


End file.
